go waltzing out in blue and red
by violent darlings
Summary: Four, Sarah. He is old and she is young, and this is the way of it. WARNING: PWP. Repeat, PWP. No plot whatsoever. Just angst and smut.


I never thought I'd post this. There is no excuse for this, none at all. It is pure shameless indulgence, all because I wanted Sarah and the Fourth Doctor to shag in the TARDIS, on the console, and I beg your forgiveness. Also: why isn't there a smut genre on this site?

Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, although I bet _they've_ never wanted to do _this_ with Tom Baker...

* * *

_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_

_And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane_

_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

_Mad Girl's Love Song, Sylvia Plath_

**_go waltzing out in blue and red_**

In the end, when he cannot bear to meet her eyes any more and not lunge across the TARDIS to her, she had taken the decision away from him.

This is only his fourth body but he already feels old beyond his time; perhaps it is the responsibilities he heaps upon himself, or merely in dramatic contrast to those he surrounds himself with. He knows why he takes these companions that he does, to be human and young and raw and beautiful, to subdue the ugly black maw of aging he feels creeping up on his around the edges. His beloved blue box cannot shield him from all perils.

But, _ohbutoh_, Sarah that night, bright with life and dancing in her little skirt and heels, catching him by the hands and twirling him; the leader for once. He had shied from her hands and she had turned to another, and it had grieved him in an odd way he did not understand.

They stumble back to the TARDIS when the planet is dark and Sarah is drunk. They have rescued yet another civilisation from mortal peril and the post-near-apocalyptic celebrations had rivalled even the most determined merrymaking of any planet he'd encountered before. It's understandable, they have just averted being wiped out or turned into slaves, but as the celebrations continued deep into the night he lost track of Sarah. He had been watching the circling throng of humanoid beings, dancing with their arms linked to one another, and then as if by magic she was gone. The local drinks were potent and she was a small woman; almost automatically, his mind had flown to the worst case scenario. He seemed to do that a lot around Sarah.

But he had found her. Sarah, pretty as the flowers in her hair and tucked into a niche by a doorway. Sarah, laughing with her wide eyes joyous and her cheeks flushed bright. Sarah, all mashed up against some pretty boy, her fingers in his hair, his lips at her throat.

"Sarah," he'd said, and his voice did not sound his own, deeper even than usual and ragged, "It's time for us to go." And the thunderbolt of pain that had appeared in his chest did not alleviate as she disengaged from her new friend, waving a goodbye, a bright smile tiptoeing over her lips. That was _his _smile, the smile she would beam at him as he twiddled at the controls of the TARDIS, a great deal of the reason he got the addresses wrong so often.

And so here they are in the middle of a field, the unfamiliar constellations glittering joyously overhead and the twin moons opposing one another in the sky. It's a beautiful night, but he can't erase the image of Sarah pressed against someone else, her pretty eyes closed in pleasure, hands clutching at someone else's coat.

Well, she's certainly pressed against him now. He's watching the effects of the alcohol on her with a detached sensation tickling uncomfortably at his mind, but as she stumbles one too many times, he loops an arm around her shoulders, even as she protests all the while.

"Don't I get to say goodbye?" "I think you've said quite enough."

"Doctor, I was having fun!" "Yes, I rather imagine you were."

"You're not being very fair, you know." "Sarah, watch your step."

And so on. Boring prosaic words that he strings together to make just enough sense and not quite enough sense to sound like himself. Sarah looks up at him through eyes hazy with alcohol but clear, so clear, and he knows someday he's going to have to let her go, but he can't think how he'll ever be able to give her up.

"You're jealous," she pronounces suddenly, and he flinches away from her. Her heat is suddenly cloying, too much for him - she is too much for him.

"Don't be ridiculous." His voice is colder than he wants it to be, but it is nothing to the effort of keeping it level.

"You are," she returns, slipping off his arm and slinging her own wide, as though to embrace the entire field. "You don't like me kissing other men. You don't even like me holding hands with other men. I know you don't, Doctor, I can see it in your eyes." He cannot deny it. Does he even really want to?

Because even though he trips off into danger with a manic grin and Sarah at his side, he calculates. He plans. He gathers every scrap of evidence available to him and fuses it into a great, masterful whole; he had seen the danger threatening this planet from the moment he had stepped from the TARDIS and he had planned accordingly. He had not, however, planned for Sarah to be lost among the merry-making, to be wooed and coerced into a secluded corner where, if he is brutally honest, she looked all too happy to be.

He should push her away from him now, escape the burning heat radiating from her body to his. His scarf constricts his throat; his hat tips into his eyes. She's the only creature that can wrongfoot him in his own body, and in this moment, she seems immeasurably powerful. Daleks, Cybermen - they are nothing to her.

And he knows what she's going to do. Really, he knows, from the increase in her heartbeat to the pink tongue darting out to wet her lips, to the way she bunches up her muscles, intent on rising to her toes to be closer to him. Oh, he knows. And in a way it terrifies him. It's too much closeness, too much familiarity. Sometimes the mere throb of her pulse through her palm overwhelms him; he can't imagine the effect her pretty lips might have. Yes, he is afraid. Afraid that he will not be able to give her what she wants and that she will leave in disgust. It's a little bit of insecurity, he knows, a tight little knot of it, and he cannot shake it loose.

But this is Sarah, no one strange or unfamiliar. She has bled on him, cried on him, hit him upside the head for being a brute or an idiot. Sarah. And it will make her happy. He likes that.

She's too close now, far too close, and it's as though his body mirrors his hearts because she won't give up pressing herself closer to him, be it physically or emotionally.

"Doctor," she breathes, and the light in her eyes is awe and joy and realization all in one and he loves it, loves her for it. And it's almost enough for him.

He knows he really isn't resisting anymore and she slides her little hands underneath his coat, worming them underneath his jumper. There is only a thin layer of cotton between her hands and his skin; her fingers burn an imprint on his skin and he's too old for this, this hammer heartsbeat, these sweaty palms. She's too small to kiss him without him bending down to meet her and its the gentlemanly thing to do to oblige the lady, just one little press of lips to lips and that'll be the end of it.

Except it's been quite a long time since he's kissed anyone, as a matter of fact, and he can't quite remember how to manage it. He forgets nothing but it seems he's forgotten this, and thankfully Sarah seems to know exactly what she's doing. He wonders if the alcohol from the planet is affecting him even a little, because he parts his lips when Sarah presses her tongue against his, and the sensation is unfamiliar and insane and perfect and her hips start a slow grind against his.

The fumble for the TARDIS key is manic and rushed, his fingers twisting and tripping over one another in their haste to get them inside. The night air on the planet is warm and welcoming but he doesn't much fancy shagging Sarah Jane Smith up against a wall - at least, one outside the TARDIS.

Except he's not even sure he wants to shag Sarah, he can analyse it coolly on one level and on another be snogging Sarah's brains out.

But somehow they get inside the TARDIS.

He presses her against the console and kisses her; all pretence at not wanting this gone as he lets his hips rock against hers, the console of the TARDIS at her back. _Hmm_.

With a quick motion he scoops her up and deposits her on the console, revelling in her shriek of surprised laughter, half-cut off as he reclaims her lips. Her legs part to wrap around him; she is damp and warm between her thighs, and experimentally he strokes a path up her white skin to toy with the lace of her knickers. She moans, a soft drawn out noise, and he nudges the lace aside to touch that unknown place beneath her legs. And then everything changes.

Sarah's entire body goes rigid and her legs fall open, letting his fingers wander where they will. Her hips buck a staccato rhythm in time with his touch and he wonders if this is what tyrants feel, men who are masters of all they see, this uncontrollable power and this savage joy.

And so it goes.

There is something strange about the agony of human desire, the way Sarah seems willing to mould her body to his hands and the way her forehead is crumpled in what looks like pain. Her pretty lips turn down and he wants to kiss away the strain there. His fingertips circle the nub at the top of her thighs and she barely even _breathes_ for a moment, before grabbing him anew with increased intensity.

This could go on all night, he thinks, and he doesn't know if he wants it to stop.

Her little hands paw at the front of his trousers, clumsy with desire, and effortlessly he brushes them away, resolutely ignoring the way his breath hitches at the brush of her fingers against him. This is about her, not him.

"Not without you," she whimpers; the sound does odd things to his hearts.

"I'm right here," he soothes, kissing her forehead. It is chaste and fatherly and utterly at odds with the situation, but it is all he knows how to give her right now. Not stability, or human emotions - he can't even give her his name, but he can be her friend, even with his hand between her legs and the taste of her skin on his tongue.

But if he wants to stroke the silky flesh of her inner wrists, the bruise-petal skin of her breasts, nuzzle the dent at the base of her throat - well. He is not accustomed to admitting such desires to himself, let alone anyone else, and he absorbs her life and her vitality through every argument with her, every exchange of words, and now this. He is old and she is young, and this is the way of it.

"Doctor, no..."

"Sarah, yes," he counters, and Sarah shudders around his fingers; he braces an arm around her shoulders. He knows what she wants; she wants him in his scarf and little else, skin to skin as humans do, flush with warmth. But he is not human; his skin is colder than hers and his heartsbeats thunder to a different rhythm. This is all he can know of Sarah and humanity, the clench of her body around his fingers, the single pulse beating in her throat.

He presses his lips there and sucks; Sarah moans, high and sharp, her hips bucking. He wants to hold her down and he wants to let her rise and he wants to keep her forever, his silver sparrow, gilded feathers peeping out from beneath the dull brown. She is unimaginably human in his arms in so many magnificent ways and he wants - needs - _burns_ to tell her this. But the only words he can summon are, "Sarah, I really am proud of you," echoes of an earlier time, and to his shock she stiffens and moans out his name in an _oh_ so delicious way he's never heard before. The sight and feel of her is enough to drive this new revelation out of his head entirely, but he knows he will return to it in the midnight-madness hours when the universe is too quiet and he claws at any distraction, any thought to break the silence. Even if she is long gone by then. She will never stop saving him.

When she stills he comes back to himself, out of a sort of fugue and realises he is still touching her. He lets her go and she makes a soft sort of sigh he's heard late at 'night' in the TARDIS, treading past her room in the dark like an interloper in his own home. Her face is light and carefree in contrast to his own; he can feel the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his lips, worry lines. He worries about her.

And he has touched her and smelled her and kissed her, and he doesn't think he can meet her eyes.

It's all very human, this awkwardness, and he's not sure he likes it. Sarah smiling dizzily at him across the TARDIS and the scent of her so heavy on the air he's used to being sterile and clean and neutral.

"I'm... going to go take a shower," she says a moment or two later, and he nods. He doesn't think his voice will work at the moment but it doesn't really matter anyway because she doesn't need words. she skips off as though nothing has occurred, to wash off the day's efforts and energies and _him?_ off her skin.

Time Lords overcomplicate everything, he knows, from the stars and the planets they walk upon to the insects and the grass. He had thought he had left that part of him behind on Gallifrey; now, his mind spinning over a thousand possible pathways, he knows he has not. This has been a simple act; basic stimulation and release, and he cannot reconcile the detached words with the scent of her skin and the command she had held over him. Time Lords overcomplicate everything, but it might just be possible that humans have them beat.

It is possible that he, the Doctor, the most brilliant man he's ever had the good fortune to meet, is utterly stumped by one little, inconsequential, human girl.

His fingers are still wet. And this is one outcome he has not calculated for.


End file.
